CHAPTER VII. VILLETTE.

,but,poorthings!theywereveryplebeianinsoul.Theyspokewithinsolence,and,fastasIwalked,theykeptpacewithmealongway.AtlastImetasortofpatrol,andmydreadedhunterswereturnedfromthepursuitbuttheyhaddrivenmebeyondmyreckoning:whenIcouldcollectmyfaculties,InolongerknewwhereIwasthestaircaseImustlongsincehavepassed.Puzzled,outofbreath,allmypulsesthrobbingininevitableagitation,Iknewnotwheretoturn.Itwasterribletothinkofagainencounteringthosebearded,sneeringsimpletonsyetthegroundmustberetraced,andthestepssoughtout. Icameatlasttoanoldandwornflight,and,takingitforgrantedthatthismustbetheoneindicated,Idescendedthem.Thestreetintowhichtheyledwasindeednarrow,butitcontainednoinn.OnIwandered.Inaveryquietandcomparativelycleanandwell-pavedstreet,Isawalightburningoverthedoorofaratherlargehouse,loftierbyastorythanthoseroundit.Thismightbetheinnatlast.Ihastenedon:mykneesnowtrembledunderme:Iwasgettingquiteexhausted. Noinnwasthis.Abrass-plateembellishedthegreatporte-cochère:“PensionnatdeDemoiselles”wastheinscriptionandbeneath,aname,“MadameBeck.” Istarted.Aboutahundredthoughtsvolleyedthroughmymindinamoment.YetIplannednothing,andconsiderednothing:Ihadnottime.Providencesaid,“Stopherethisisyourinn.”Fatetookmeinherstronghandmasteredmywilldirectedmyactions:Irangthedoor-bell. WhileIwaited,Iwouldnotreflect.Ifixedlylookedatthestreet-stones,wherethedoor-lampshone,andcountedthemandnotedtheirshapes,andtheglitterofwetontheirangles.Irangagain.Theyopenedatlast.Abonneinasmartcapstoodbeforeme. “MayIseeMadameBeck?”Iinquired. IbelieveifIhadspokenFrenchshewouldnothaveadmittedmebut,asIspokeEnglish,sheconcludedIwasaforeignteachercomeonbusinessconnectedwiththepensionnat,and,evenatthatlatehour,sheletmein,withoutawordofreluctance,oramomentofhesitation. ThenextmomentIsatinacold,glitteringsalon,withporcelainstove,unlit,andgildedornaments,andpolishedfloor.Apenduleonthemantel-piecestrucknineo’clock. Aquarterofanhourpassed.Howfastbeateverypulseinmyframe!HowIturnedcoldandhotbyturns!Isatwithmyeyesfixedonthedoor—agreatwhitefolding-door,withgiltmouldings:Iwatchedtoseealeafmoveandopen.Allhadbeenquiet:notamousehadstirredthewhitedoorswereclosedandmotionless. “YouayreEngliss?”saidavoiceatmyelbow.Ialmostbounded,sounexpectedwasthesoundsocertainhadIbeenofsolitude. Noghoststoodbesideme,noranythingofspectralaspectmerelyamotherly,dumpylittlewoman,inalargeshawl,awrapping-gown,andaclean,trimnightcap. IsaidIwasEnglish,andimmediately,withoutfurtherprelude,wefelltoamostremarkableconversation.MadameBeck(forMadameBeckitwas—shehadenteredbyalittledoorbehindme,and,beingshodwiththeshoesofsilence,Ihadheardneitherherentrancenorapproach)—MadameBeckhadexhaustedhercommandofinsularspeechwhenshesaid,“YouayreEngliss,”andshenowproceededtoworkawayvolublyinherowntongue.Iansweredinmine.Shepartlyunderstoodme,butasIdidnotatallunderstandher—thoughwemadetogetheranawfulclamour(anythinglikeMadame’sgiftofutteranceIhadnothithertoheardorimagined)—weachievedlittleprogress.Sherang,erelong,foraidwhicharrivedintheshapeofa“ma?tresse,”whohadbeenpartlyeducatedinanIrishconvent,andwasesteemedaperfectadeptintheEnglishlanguage.Ablufflittlepersonagethisma?tressewas—Labassecouriennefromtoptotoe:andhowshedidslaughterthespeechofAlbion!However,Itoldheraplaintale,